Supernova
by mangoshakeplease
Summary: Because the moment she ends up crashing and burning, he expects nothing less. — NatsuLucy


_**Fairy Tail**_** belongs to Mashima Hiro. No infringement was intended in the making of this story.**

* * *

**Supernova**

Because the moment she ends up crashing and burning, he expects nothing less. — NatsuLucy

* * *

**Supernova**

.

He keeps waiting for her to just crash and burn, for some reason.

It's not that he wants her gone, oh no. He wants her by his side forever, if possible; she's nakama after all. It's just — even though he knows that she's gotten stronger, that she's not the preppy, perky, wanderlust-filled blonde he first met all those months — years? — ago, the image of delicate, beautiful, untouchable Princess Lucy Heartfilia is still burned to the back of his eyelids.

Maybe he shouldn't have gone through those old photo albums (without her permission, when she wasn't even home, but Happy wanted fatty tuna, and she's pretty much former royalty so maybe she had some in her fridge, but since all there was was icky vegetables and a tub of ice-cream in the freezer — Lucy really needed to restock — they'd gone searching through her cupboards and her closet and under her bed and in the drawers of her desk, too, in hopes of finding semi-edible food; they found her secret candy stash hidden in her bookshelf and Happy accepted it as the next best thing).

He lies down on the ground and stares up at the sky, and sees nothing but spilt milk on a black table.

He doesn't have enough imagination for this.

He brings up his arm, remembers the grip of Lucy's pale fingers around his wrist, connecting star after star, painting him a picture of her friends with all the skill of a master artist.

He was never really much of an art appreciator. He doesn't understand why people have to use one thing to mean another. He doesn't like representations, or symbolism, or roundabout explanations that require delicacy. He prefers to keep things simple and straight to the point. It's less complicated that way.

In the end, stars are still just dots in the sky for him (no offense to Loke, and all of Lucy's other friends, of course). The moon would probably be just a dot, too, if it weren't as big and didn't change shape quite as often.

He digs in to his pocket and pulls out the crumpled photograph of perfect Princess Lucy Heartfila, smiling back at him with a strain on her pink lips and frustration in her chocolate brown eyes. She sparkles like a star, with diamonds in her hair and jewels running down the edges of her fine silk dress. She's like a marble statue frozen in time, perfect for all eternity. He doesn't understand why she would give up this kind of life to become a mage.

Even Erza — powerful and beautiful Erza — deserves more than a life that brings nothing but scars and tears. Erza could have been a queen — _should_ have been a queen. In another place, another time, under different circumstances, maybe — _maybe_ Erza could've had a better life. But instead, here she is, babysitting irresponsible, impulsive brats like him, crying way too much, holding it all in until her scarlet hair bleeds out to gray.

He's happy that she's here — that they're _both_ here — laughing and enjoying life with Fairy Tail, but he can't help but feel that they deserve something better — something more.

Being a mage is not glamorous, and girls needed glamor in their lives, right?

He holds up the picture of pretty Princess Lucy Heartfilia against the night sky, and finds that she fits right in, in this black blanket of glitter, the absolute brightest among the stars.

.

.

.

.

.

It's like she does this little dance.

She flicks a thin wrist and golden lights explode in front of her. She summons beings far more powerful than her — far more powerful than _him_ (although that remains questionable — and, yes, he's referring to Loke) — who are supposed to fight for _her_ sake, yet she fights _alongside_ her spirits and dances _with them_ anyway. She reiterates that she is _not_ their master, but their partner who stands by their side, taking the lead and guiding them through the battlefield like a brilliant ray of sunshine.

Yes, she is dazzling sunshine walking down a bloody, war-torn path. A strip of pale yellow paper crossing an ashen bridge; a dandelion seed trying to plant itself in knee-deep mud.

She doesn't belong here.

"Nice one, Lucy."

But he compliments her anyway, because that's what nakama are for, and she beams at him more radiantly than anything else in the sky. And for that one second, maybe — maybe it'd be fine if she stayed here.

(But in the end, that's just him being selfish.)

.

.

.

.

.

But even then — even after crossing the Milky Way, even after walking through miles of carnage, she is still just a girl. She could dig into her veins as long as she wants, until all the rivers run red, and she's bled out every ounce of liquid in her frail little blood — she is still _Lucy Heartfilia_, and that damn well is never going change.

He reaches out a tentative hand to grasp lightly at her shaking shoulders, Happy floating behind him as back-up.

"Lucy — " he starts, but doesn't know how to follow it up.

"S-S-Seven years!" she wails, and he swears she's shining brighter than ever. "I miss by a few months!"

He kneels down in front of her — cautiously, gently — and holds her face in his hands, touching the fall of salty tears escaping from her eyes. He inhales sharply and holds his breath, because, naturally, _naturally_, he is stunned into speechlessness. It's probably wrong for him to think so, but right now, by _god_, he has never seen anything more beautiful. The waterworks are like fireworks in his hands, warm and tingly sparkles like fireflies in a glass jar. They are hot, desperate tears, filled with all the frustration and anger of one who was left behind. They fall right through the spaces between his fingers like liquid silk, and he knows, he _knows_ he's holding grace, touching an angel; he's reached a star.

"It's — everything's going to be all right, Luce," he says, he says in an unsteady voice, because this girl in front of him is so blindingly brilliant, so absolutely spectacular. Like a supernova of melted gold that drowns everyone who sees it in utter bliss.

He has to admit, this girl is just _phenomenal_ when she's draining herself into the river of stars.

Because he knows that in the end, when she's cried herself bone-dry, all that'll be left will be the memory of that one, marvelous little girl crowned with golden stars; that brilliant mind who dreamt big, and had a mother and a father, and was utterly happy; that bubbling pool of magical potential who laughed and smiled like it was all she did, day in and day out; that precious little one who could've been anything she wanted to be; that lucky child whose parents had the world laid down at her feet; that one star who shined brighter than anything else in the sky.

Pretty Princess Lucy Heartfilia, a snapshot of perfection and dreams.

.

**/fin**

* * *

**End Note:** Um. No, I don't know what I did either. OTL Feel free to flame this.


End file.
